


This Thing Between Us

by une_ange1



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Character of Color, Casual Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Sex, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of past drug use, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow To Update, Songfic, Swearing, Tropes, brief mentions of domestic violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/une_ange1/pseuds/une_ange1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crane’s new to Sleepy Hollow. Abbie’s his neighbor. A casual fling develops, but things get complicated (as they always do).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CHAPTER ONE: DAY ONE -- MEETINGS

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on this fic since S2... and shelved it half a dozen times following the wreckage of the show. Thanks to the amazing sneetchstar for letting me pick her brain what feels like eons ago and the helpful suggestions I tried not to muddle. I do not own Sleepy Hollow, just the story that follows, and b/c it’s AU, I'll do as I please. I promise plenty of tropes because I adore them.  
> Rated M for later chapters because, well, y’all know me.  
> 

When Abbie first saw the moving truck parked in the loading zone of the Mt. Pleasant Apartments, she quietly hoped it was for one of the older tenants. Better yet, Mrs. Van Brunt herself. Hey, co-op lofts in New York were hard to come by and let’s be honest, no tears would be shed over the battle-axe, with the exception maybe of her man-child of a son, Abraham, and even those would be suspect.

She then caught sight of the funky logo on the side of the truck: two triangles—one pointed downward, the other upward, connected at the sides haphazardly. “Sterling: International Removers,” she reads. _Hmm._

"Fresh meat,” Tori sang as Abbie came through the lobby doors. Abbie chuckled softly, shaking her head at the teen as she went to grab her mail. 

“Now how do you know that’s a man moving in?” 

Tori settled up against the mailboxes. “I heard Ms. Van Brunt in the hall earlier talking about him,” she said with a smile. “She doesn’t seem to like him very much.” 

“No surprise there,” Abbie muttered under her breath. 

* * *

**_2 YRS AGO—_ **

Cilla Van Brunt watched Abbie steely as Abbie looked around the unit. Recently renovated, the one-bedroom, 1.5 bath loft had all the latest amenities. The kitchen was outfitted with stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, a microwave built right into the island,  & two modern mini pendant lights hung from the ceiling. She loved the hardwood floors, the vaulted ceilings, the walk-in closet with hinged doors! 

Moving to one of four large living room windows, she was pleased to find a decent view of the street and building entrance. Though she’d be on the 10th floor, she wouldn’t have to lug groceries all the way up thanks to an elevator. 

She looked hard for cons — gaps in the baseboards, signs of a rushed paint job, doublespeak in the rental agreement — but came up empty. Pleasantville was a great neighborhood: close-knit, away from the noise of the City, but still close enough to hop the Harlem Line when she needed a change of pace. Best of all, the building had its own parking garage. _A garage!_

“You’ll have to pay for the space, of course,” added Cilla. “Not many of our tenants drive.” 

“That’s okay,” Abbie beamed. “It’ll be great not having to beat the street cleaners out to my truck in the morning.” 

“Let’s speak plainly, shall we?” Cilla interjected. “Notwithstanding your... history, the board thinks highly of you. They believe having some sort of police presence on-site will be beneficial to attracting and maintaining the right kind of element. And in kind, you’ll find in your lease that we’ve reduced a portion of your rent and monthly dues.” 

Abbie’s face is unreadable — a true task in and of itself because she’d really like to deck this woman — but she won’t give Cilla the satisfaction. Abbie family’s history (and her own) were no secret: her mother’s and subsequently her sister’s mental illness, Abbie’s fast track to self-destruction, the rotating door of foster homes & juvie before Corbin intervened. 

With a lot of tough love, Abbie got her life in order, surprised everyone by setting off for the police academy, then went to work on repairing the broken relationship with her sister, Jenny — getting her released from Tarrytown Psych, vouching for her to Captain Irving to set her up with a job. 

In the time that would follow here at the Mt. Pleasant Apartments, Abbie was the ideal tenant in that she always paid on time, followed the code of conduct, attended the monthly HOA meetings. Her apartment served her well as a place to lay her head, take a hot shower, store her things, but it wasn’t home. It never would be. 

* * *

The sound of Tori’s voice pulled Abbie back to the present. “What?”

“I said who would travel all this way for Sleepy Hollow?” Tori grumbled.

Abbie herself dreamed of the day she could get out of here, leave this place behind for good. She crossed her fingers that the application she put into Quantico two weeks ago would be well-received. 

Abbie glanced down at Tori and smiled. The teen was dressed in her red, white and blue cheer uniform, her hair styled into a sleek ponytail affixed with a bright red bow, a heart painted onto her right cheek. 

“Don’t you have a competition to get to?” 

“Yeah, but I wanna see him first.” 

“Tori?” called her mother, Linda. “We need to get on the road _now_ if we want to make it upstate in time.” 

“Ugh, it’s not fair!” Tori pouted. 

“Hey, hey, none of that. Your momma doesn’t sit in traffic for her health; she does it for you. Go on and I’ll give you the full rundown on him when you get back,” Abbie assured her. 

“Okay. Deal,” Tori smiled before running off to catch up to her mother. 

“Good luck!” Abbie called after her. 

****

She _had_ intended to make her way upstairs to her apartment and settle in (she didn’t need to see the guy right this minute), but curiosity got the better of her and she walked back over to the entry doors. 

Abbie watched through the glass as two men worked quickly to haul the load off the truck, followed closely by a tall, wiry man who appeared to be working their last nerve. 

“Do be careful,” she can hear him say, the worry present in his English accent. _Yep, that’s the new guy,_ she muses. 

“Just a moment,” he said, running into the truck. When he’s back in view, she can see he’s cradling an antique lamp covered in bubble wrap. He gives a quick nod of thanks to the movers as they resume working. 

He doesn’t know what draws him to look in her direction at that moment, but he does. Their eyes meet, just briefly, but it’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Visual for Abbie's kitchen](http://www.houzz.com/photos/2507612/Maybeck-modern-kitchen-calgary)
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> Also, Sterling International Movers is a real moving company in the UK. I don’t work for them. I just liked their logo and wanted to insert a bit of symbolism.


	2. CHAPTER TWO: WEEK ONE

Less than an hour into a nostalgic marathon of _Living Single_ , Abbie heard a knock on her door. She paused the DVR, begrudgingly unwrapped herself from her blanket and got up from the couch. Standing on her tiptoes, she checked the peephole. It’s him. Mr. Save-A-Lamp.

With the long, dark hair, tapered beard, and piercing blue eyes, he could easily have stepped out of the pages of an old romance novel. He looked harmless enough, but out of habit she flicked the safety off her gun and placed it within arm’s reach. 

“Yeah?” she asked, opening the door. 

“Yes, good evening,” he smiled. “My name is Ichabod Crane. I’ve recently moved into the flat down the hall,” he said, gesturing down the corridor. “Sorry to disturb you, but it seems some of your missives got mixed in with mine. Similar numbering, I suppose.” 

He extended the mail to her. “You are Abigail Mills?”

“I am. Thank you,” she said, taking them. She flipped through them nonchalantly (nothing but bills and a few coupons) and turned to go back into her apartment when she realized he was still standing there, staring at her. “Something else I can help you with?” 

_Intelligent and beautiful in form_ , he thinks as he considers the Old Testament — her namesake. His eyes follow her lips intently as they move but it takes a moment for his ears to register the question. 

“No — I apologize. Well, it has been a pleasure to meet you, to finally put a name to the face.” 

(She caught that. “Finally,” huh?) He is rewarded to see some of her irritation replaced with a half grin. 

“I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening,” Crane says, straightening his coat and offering a small bow. “Good night, Miss Mills.” 

“Good night, Mr. Crane.” 

As he walked away, she looked to see which apartment he went into, shook her head at herself, then shut the door.


	3. CHAPTER THREE: WELCOME TO N.Y., PART 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me and your kudos. This chapter just continued to grow... and I haven't quite nailed down the ending for the back half, thus a two-parter. Eh... Meanwhile, I've got six chapters planned out so I need to this to get out of my head so I can move on. ;)  
> \---  
> Terms/ abbreviations:  
> • BCI – Bureau of Criminal Investigations, a unit of the New York State Police (NYSP). The NYSP routinely help the Sleepy Hollow Police Dept. in real life.  
> • INTERPOL – Int’l Criminal Police Organization  
> \---

He had only meant to pick up a few provisions when he took the train into Sleepy Hollow that morning. He hadn’t meant to be caught in the middle of a sting operation.

* * *

It had started out innocent enough. Trips made to the larger organic chains to replenish his Devonshire clotted cream had only returned pre-packaged imposters and so he expanded his search outside the city and found The Sleepy Deli. 

Crane was mesmerized by the local delicacies he found inside — bagels and lox, pierogi, and cronuts. Ingenious! He went down each aisle, inspecting content labels of various frozen dinner meals (and putting them back down), inhaling the aromas of spices, perusing the craft beers, and nodding happily to himself when he found a worthy contender: kaymak, a Turkish clotted cream. 

With his handbasket nearly full, he approached the butcher to sample the assortment of meats and quickly their conversation turned to his accent and a spirited discussion about the British Open. Perhaps naively, when Larry mentioned “spread”, Crane didn’t catch the suggestion was to place a wager, not add on a tub of butter. But it didn’t matter because two plainclothes cops descended on them and hauled them away… 

“Illegal gambling,” Crane huffed at the charges as they sat him down in the interrogation room. “Absurd. I wish to speak with your commanding officer. Who is in charge here?” 

“We have some questions of our own, Mr. Crane,” Jones countered. 

“Yeah, like what’s with the coat?” Morales said with a snicker.

* * *

Captain Irving catches Abbie just as she’s about to sit down at her desk. “Mills? You got a sec?” 

She looks down at the stack of reports that never seem to leave her inbox then back up at him. “Um, yeah. What’s up?” 

He motions for her to follow him and she does. 

“Picked up Larry Martins down at his store with a customer.” 

“Again?! He just did six months. Brooks processed him out last week.”

“Clearly he couldn’t stay away from my famous tuna melt,” Frank deadpanned. A chirp comes from his phone and the two stop briefly as he typed back a rapid-fire reply. 

“NYSP asked for our help on this one,” he continues, resuming his stride. “They’re hoping to find some of the bigger players involved. Gaming Detail has a few guys out this week, so Jones and Morales volunteered.” 

_More like angling for a spot at the BCI._ “The other guy talking?” she asks. 

“Hasn’t shut up since they brought him in — moaning about ‘civil liberties’ and the Fourth Amendment. He’s here on a temporary workers visa; INTERPOL would only confirm he hasn’t been flagged in any active investigations across the pond. Tech just finished up with the audio and tape from the store and he’s clean, so kick him loose. _Please._ Then, reacquaint our pal Larry with the conditions of his release... See if anything can be salvaged from this shipwreck.” 

Irving’s phone chirped again and he held it up in exasperation. “I’ve got to get over to the captains’ meeting, but I told Superintendent Roche I have my best people on it,” he said, staring at her pointedly and turning up the charm. 

Abbie nodded. “I want next Saturday off.” 

“Done. Let Tango & Cash in there down easy,” he chuckled as he began to head out. “And Mills?” he called back. 

“Sir?” 

“Make sure I don’t have a foreign diplomat on my hands. I don’t need the British Embassy up my ass.” 

_British Embassy…?_ Her brain quickly goes from, “What are the odds it’s him?” to “Shit. Don’t be him.” 

But when she turns the knob, there he is — Ichabod Crane — his hair disheveled, chin squared defiantly, and his wrists cuffed to the table.


End file.
